Missus Edelstein
by Kalvin Edward Rumwyn
Summary: In the beginning there was self-loathing and pain. Then Roderich came to terms with what those meant and she was going to have to keep her composure. [A male-to-female Austria fanfiction.]
1. Chapter 1

Roderich Edelstein lived according to conservative values.

When he passed homosexual couples, he frowned (Although his marriages were different. He was doing it for political reasons.). When he heard of the list of partners the others of his kinds kept, he shuddered (Roderich himself had only ever had three bed companions through his long history and that was more than enough). When he saw the things other nations "hid" in their pockets or purses, he was revolted.

So why was he up tonight wondering why something felt . . . off?

Roderich sat up and stared at the clock. 2:07 AM. He sighed and turned to face the empty half of the bed. Then he decided to turn over again, lying on his left side as he stared at the wall.

Something was whispering to him and Roderich listened, unable to make out any of the words. He thought, trying to figure out what it was and finding nothing. He shut his eyes, trying to sleep.

He turned over again to look at his alarm clock. 3:56 AM.

With a sigh, Roderich lay on his stomach and clutched his pillow tight. He knew exactly what it was now.

In the closet, a black ghost hung. Roderich liked to imagine the skirt fluttering just the way it did when Eliza wore it, but he knew that was impossible. He made sure he closed the closet door every night to keep that spectre in the closet where it belonged.

Not that it helped much.

Roderich had memories seep into his head. Him staring enviously at the ladies of the Austrian court with their long, swaying, layered skirts. Him staring as women began wearing shorter skirts, then pants. Him staring in the mirror while he tried on the black dress Eliza had left behind.

He turned, laying on his back, and stared up at the ceiling in utter horror and disgust. The dress fit him, mostly, and it felt nice to wear it.

Roderich sat up, staring at the clock for salvation. 5:28 AM.

He got out of bed and went to make some coffee. If he remembered correctly, he had the card for a therapist someone. Maybe it wasn't too late to schedule an appointment.

The worst outcome would be a repeat of Freud's fraudulent misdiagnoses.

Roderich sighed and sipped his coffee before picking up the cordless phone with shaking hands. He slid the business card on the counter closer despite his eyesight being fine. One hand freed so Roderich could sip his coffee again.

Finally, he began to press the buttons, messed up twice, and put the phone up to his ear the third time. Ringing. Roderich waited, sighing a bit and sipping his coffee again.

The ringing changed in an instant to the voice of a woman who Roderich could only assume needed coffee to wake up as much as he needed it as a distraction. She repeated, snapping Roderich out of his musings, "How can I help you today?"

Roderich told her, in a hushed voice, "I need to make an appointment with . . ." He stared at the card and told her, "I need to schedule an appointment with Doctor Whittle as soon as possible."

Roderich heard the clacking of computer keys and he assumed the woman was staring at the schedule for the doctor on a screen. Everything was electronic now. Then she told him, "He'll be free this Tuesday at eleven. Will that be alright? It's the soonest I can get you in, I'm afraid."

Roderich stared at the calendar and noted it was only Saturday. Slowly, he nodded and told the woman on the phone, "Tuesday is alright with me. Thank you."

"Have a great day," the woman recited in the flat monotone business trained. Then Roderich hung up and put the phone back on its cradle.

He would just have to wait until Tuesday and avoid doing anything strange.

That day went by without incident. So did Sunday. Monday was a different story.

Roderich was determined to exorcise the spectre in the closet by any means necessary. He flung open the closet door, yanked the hanger holding the creature, and stared.

He meant to throw it away or call Eliza to give it back to her. Instead, to his dismay, he slipped out of his clothes and into the dress.

It suited him. The skirt was long enough, ending just past his knees and, while the dress had the potential to be low-cut on the right woman, Roderich found the softly curving neckline complimented his features. He never had overly broad shoulders and the dress made his shoulders look only more slim and feminine.

It suited him and Roderich hated himself for it. Monday was a failure and so was he.

As he took the dress off and went to shower, Roderich almost hit the mirror.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN****:** This chapter switches between narrative and Roderich's journal, so it may be confusing.

* * *

"Tell me about the way you've felt about cross-dressing," the doctor told Roderich gently.

Roderich looked up, jarred out of some self-loathing murk. He sighed and admitted, "I hate it and I hate myself for it."

"Well, why is that?" Doctor Whittle asked, staring at Roderich with concern and care.

"It's disgusting," Roderich told him. "Men should _not_ wear skirts and I should _not _feel comfortable in my ex-wife's dress."

"So why don't you stop trying on the dress?" the man asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Well, I . . ." Roderich began, realising the doctor was right.

"Why don't you keep a journal?" the doctor asked. "If you're cross-dressing due to stress, the journal might help. Either way, I would like to see you again next week to discuss this."

Roderich nodded politely, though he though—in more polite terms, of course—the man with the clipboard and stupid horn-rimmed glasses was full of shit. He shook his hand and told him, "Thank you for the suggestion."

Roderich stepped out of the man's office feeling more upset than when he walked in. Upset enough to smoke.

Roderich drove himself to the nearest corner store and got himself a pack of menthol cigarettes and cheap wine. As he passed an office supply store on the way home, he stopped in to get a notebook and some pens.

Maybe writing it out would be his salvation.

_**Tuesday, April 21.**_

_** Wore the dress yesterday and hate myself for it. Stupid therapist thought I do it out of stress. I do it because I'm a disgusting creäture.**_

Roderich paused his pen to snub out his cigarette in the ashtray by the bed and sip the wine straight from the bottle. He made a face, but swallowed the liquor and continued to write.

_**Maybe I'll burn the dress tomorrow.**_

He sighed and crossed out "tomorrow" to replace it with "the day after tomorrow." He sipped his wine with one hand and closed the journal with the other.

_**Wednesday, April 22.**_

_** Bought nail polish while stocking up on aspirin. Wine last night was an awful idea, but the cigarettes were a good investment. Painted my nails and I've spent all day chipping at the damn paint. It's like concrete.**_

Roderich closed the journal and set it on the nightstand next to the cigarettes. He glared at the polish on his nails, scratching at it again to try to chip it. After five minutes of chipping, he gave up and lit another cigarette.

_**Friday, April 24.**_

_** Couldn't write a single thing yesterday, too upset. The house is so empty now that everyone's gone. I could dress up if I wanted to, but it's disgusting. Smoked a whole pack of cigarettes (except the three I smoked before) yesterday. Still feeling upset, but felt I had to write something.**_

Roderich closed the notebook and set it next to the full ashtray. He wanted another pack or another bottle of wine. Anything to distract him from the almost crippling solitude.

"Damn, filthy thing," he muttered to himself before curling up in bed.

_**Sunday, April 26.**_

_** Eliza came over yesterday and I gave her the dress back. Good riddance, but I feel like it was a security item. Having it there meant she had lived here, that there was proof she existed. Now it's gone and so is she. **_

_** I want to invite someone over, but I'm so afraid they'll notice the chipped polish or the scent of smoke.**_

Roderich tossed the notebook on the floor, lying back in his large, empty bed and staring up at his ceiling. Slowly, even though he tried to hide it, he began to cry. The silent tears turned into wheezing sobs that racked his body.

He wept for Eliza, feeling terrible that he had driven her away. He wept for Ludwig, feeling guilty for needing him so much. He wept for his many spouses that he never loved them as much as Eliza or Antonio. He wept for Antonio, feeling like he never gave the happy man enough credit.

Finally, he wept for himself, feeling more scared, confused, and upset than he ever had been in his life.

_**Monday, April 27.**_

_** Have to see my therapist tomorrow. Cried again last night. I feel so awful. It's a kind of disease that festers. I'm so scared and confused, but I don't want to ask for help.**_

_** I've never been strong a day in my life.**_

Roderich closed the journal and set it aside. He bought another pack of cigarettes yesterday and he lit one up. After a few puffs of smoke, he picked up the pen again.

_**If I keep smoking like this, I might just get lung cancer.**_


	3. Chapter 3

"So would you mind if I read your journal?" Doctor Whittle asked Roderich.

Roderich shook his head, handing over the notebook. Once it was in the doctor's hands, Roderich glared at it as though it was a poisonous snake.

The therapist read it over, saying nothing. Roderich took the opportunity to not the cactus on the desk and the child's drawing on the wall. The therapist himself sat in a leather chair facing away from the window and toward the—considerably soft—couch reserved for patients.

"It sounds like depression," the doctor noted. "Guilt, too. Why is that, Roderich?"

Roderich told him, "Because I've wrong a lot of people, some of them I loved."

"Why don't you try making amends?" the doctor asked. "It might make you feel better."

Roderich sighed and told him, "Those are old wounds. I shouldn't open them."

"There's no harm in trying, Roderich," Doctor Whittle promised. "Continue your journal, try to make amends, and I'll see you next week."

Roderich took the book back, shook hands politely, and went back to his car. Once inside, Roderich lit up a cigarette, smoking by himself and thinking about how utterly full of crap this therapy was.

He turned to his phone and texted Eliza, asking if they could have dinner together. She replied with plans of a "family" arrangement and inviting Roderich.

His fingers shook as he texted her and told her that he would come to dinner.

* * *

_**Wednesday, April 29.**_

_** Dinner was okay. Feliciano and Ludwig were there. Gilbert went out with his friends. Eliza is, and always will be, a fantastic cook.**_

_** Eliza pulled me aside and hugged me. I cried like a small child. I mumbled a few apologies and she kissed my forehead. I wish her only best.**_

_** I apologized to Ludwig simply and he shook my hand. Feliciano tackled me, crying about me dying. I assured him I was not dying.**_

_** I've never felt more accepted anywhere.**_

Roderich smiled a little, setting the journal aside. He stared out at the backyard from his couch. He decided, as he stared at the weeds choking the life out of the plants and soil, that he would garden.

He went upstairs, getting dressed and grabbing his wallet. Roderich went out to his car, slipping in the driver's seat. He started the car, adjusting the mirrors and opening the garage door. He pulled out, closing the garage door, and drove off, to the hardware store.

Roderich went directly to the gardening section. As he inspected sunflowers and lilies, he caught sight of a blond man wandering about. He stared fixedly at the sunflowers, breath held.

"Roderich?"

Damn. Caught. Roderich looked up, hoping his faux shock was working.

"Roderich," Francis purred. "I'm glad to see you outside. You always look so pale." He looked over at the sunflowers before nodding and telling him, "Those should do nicely in your garden. Maybe some white lilies."

Roderich murmured, staring at a strong sunflower, "My garden has fallen into chaos. I needed new plants."

Francis nodded, commenting, "Gardening is a stress-relieving activity. It would do you wonders."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Roderich asked, glaring at the Frenchman.

Francis cupped his cheek and murmured, "I can tell you're hiding things, Roderich. You always look so stressed and sick. I wish I could help."

Roderich didn't flinch away from the contact. Instead, something stretched painfully, to the point of snapping. His eyes welled with tears and Francis took a more paternal look.

"Come along," Francis whispered, hand gently grabbing Roderich's upper arm. "Come with me, Roderich."

Roderich's vision blurred and he placed his trust in Francis. Soon, gentle fingers were wiping Roderich's tears. He found they were off in a secluded corner and Roderich watched Francis.

"Tell me what's wrong," Francis murmured, hand moving to Roderich's shoulder. "My lips are sealed."

"You do a lot of unsealing them," Roderich snapped.

Francis only looked mildly amused. One hand (soft, if Roderich was to be completely honest) rubbed his back.

"I'm sorry."

"You don't have to be," Francis told him. "You're clearly upset, Roderich. Talk."

Roderich nodded and admitted, staring off at some sage, "I'm seeing someone."

"You're getting married again?"

"No," Roderich told him, staring at Francis. "A therapist."

"Whatever for, Roderich?"

Roderich admitted, "I was cross-dressing."

"That's nothing to cry over," Francis told him softly.

"It is!" Roderich insisted. "A man shouldn't feel comfortable in his ex-wife's clothes, Francis! It's strange and a man who does it is deeply disturbed."

Francis kissed his forehead, leaning up slightly to do it, and murmured, "You're so silly, Roderich. Come over for dinner one of these nights. You need family time."

"I had family time the other night with Eliza," Roderich told him, trying to shrug off the blond.

"We should get together, though," Francis told him. "You do need to be with people. If you want, Matthew can come by and sit with you."

"I'm not an old woman," Roderich insisted. "I'll be fine on my own."

Francis shrugged and backed away, giving him space. He whispered, "You're not sick, Roderich."

Roderich opened his mouth, ready to shout at Francis. The blonde left, calmly and with plenty of flowers in his basket.

When Roderich looked down, he found a small white lily blossom in his own basket.

* * *

_**Thursday, April 30.**_

_** Started up with my garden again. Lilies and sunflowers look lovely together. Might plant edelweiss in the bare patch by the oak tree.**_

_** Still think I'm sick and no one can tell me cross-dressing is fine.**_

Roderich snubbed out his cigarette angrily. He glared at the porcelain piano and cello Francis bought him to put in the middle of the dining room table. He scooped up the ornament, glaring at his scarlet nails.

He threw the thing and it shattered against the wall. His fingers were soon covered in red and, this time; it was certainly not nail polish.

* * *

_**Friday, **__**April**__** May 1.**_

_** Might agree to go to dinner with Francis. It can't be that bad and I have amends to make with him.**_

Roderich fixed his clothes, making sure he looked fairly masculine. He wore gloves, covering his nails and all the nicks on his fingertips.

He stared at himself in the mirror and it took all his self-restraint not to smash it.

* * *

_**Saturday, May 2.**_

_** Francis was NO HELP. He wore a skirt and paraded around like a woman. He must be sick and trying to get me to be just as sick.**_

_** At least I know there's something wrong with me.**_

Roderich hissed as he accidentally opened one of the slower-healing cuts, smearing blood on the margin of the page. He huffed, throwing the book against the wall.

"Goddamn it," he murmured to his empty bedroom.

* * *

_**Monday, May 4.**_

_** Therapy tomorrow. Cuts healed, no scarring.**_

_** I'm sick. Honestly and truly sick. I want someone to stop me. I need to stop me.**_

Roderich lit up another cigarette, pacing and smoking. He had so much to worry about. Eliza hadn't called and Francis had. Maybe Eliza told Francis about Roderich's issues. Maybe Francis was out and, despite his promise of sealed lips, telling Gilbert and Antonio and that _infuriating _American.

Roderich grabbed his keys and went to go find himself cheap, shitty wine.


End file.
